


Cop A Feel

by venividivictorious



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Cop Fetish, Copcifer, Established Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Police Uniforms, Post-Devil Face Reveal to Chloe Decker, Sexual Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, baby's first smutfic, cop!Lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venividivictorious/pseuds/venividivictorious
Summary: In which Chloe gets pulled over by the police, Lucifer looks good in uniform, and the cruiser is used as a prop for some devilish fun.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 40
Kudos: 194





	Cop A Feel

**Author's Note:**

> this is a) my first foray into the terrifying world of smutfic and b) entirely the fault of the FH Thirst Peddlers. 
> 
> i refuse to be held responsible for any of it
> 
> thank you so much @theweirddane for reading this through for me, i am cringing slightly less about this now 
> 
> /hits post while screaming

The cool, detached voice of the GPS on her cell tells her to take the next exit, and Chloe Decker indicates to pull into the right lane. 

She’s not all that familiar with this part of town. She’s been here before, of course, but for work; this part of downtown Los Angeles is notoriously shady, packed with mob-front businesses and industrial warehouses, and she’s been here a few times to investigate a body dump. But there won’t be any of that tonight; the storage facility she’s headed for is, apparently, owned by her definitely-shady-but-not-murderous partner, and she's been promised that this evening, it will be deserted.

Movement in her rearview mirror catches her attention and she spares it a glance, noting the LAPD patrol car following her as she takes the sliproad off the freeway and crosses a junction. She turns a corner, and as the GPS tells her that her destination will be coming up on her right, the patrol car sets its lights to flashing. The siren blares at her a couple times, making her jump. 

Because of course it does. Lucifer is Lucifer, and he’s never been one to resist temptation. 

She indicates to turn into Lucifer’s dodgy storage place and pulls into a small courtyard framed by containers, where she parks up neatly in a marked bay. She kills the engine, watching in her wing mirror as his borrowed patrol car rolls to a halt behind her and he steps out and -

Oh.  _ Oh _ . 

He looks  _ good _ , tall and dark and artfully stubbled, his jawline like cut glass. The crisp navy short-sleeved shirt and pants of his uniform cling to the long, lean lines of him like the adoring public at his club, highlighting broad shoulders and toned arms and trim hips. There’s a firearm holstered at his thigh, and even as the rational, sensible part of her mind is blurting  _ who in the hell gave him a gun  _ her lizard brain is eyeing the thick strap wrapped around taut muscle and sending arousal to coil in her stomach. 

His eyes - deep and dark and begging to be drowned in - are hidden behind a pair of designer aviators, but the smile that quirks his mouth when he catches her watching him prowl towards her driver-side window is predatory and full of teeth. 

He does love to chase, does Lucifer. 

“Hel _ lo _ there,” he purrs as he comes up alongside her window, bracing one hand against the roof of her Charger and taking off the aviators. Those impossibly dark eyes twinkle at her, full of mischief, as he folds his sunglasses neatly into the open neck of his shirt. The movement draws her eyes to where the top two buttons are undone, to the light trail of freckles leading down his throat and disappearing under smooth fabric. 

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless already, and as his smile becomes a full on cheeky grin she clears her throat and tries to get back into character. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

His eyes drop to skim her cleavage before he drags them back up to her face. She’s wearing the shirt he likes, the cream v-neck that shows off the bullet necklace he gave her, nestled between her breasts, and a pair of old denim cutoffs that show off her legs. The last time she wore these was to repaint the wall Maze keeps throwing knives at, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

He smiles, all warm easy charm, haloed by the way the sun hits him, and she finds herself wondering - not for the first time - how she managed to delude herself for so long about what he really is. “I’m afraid so,” he tells her, leaning in a long, languid line against the side of her car. “Can I see your licence and registration, please?”

Huh. She actually expected him to forget that part. But she leans over to fish her papers out of the glove compartment and hands them over - 

(if he laughs at her driving licence picture, the one where she’s scowling and has her hair scraped back into such a tight ponytail she looks permanently startled, she’s going to  _ kill _ him)

\- and he scans the little photo ID card, tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Chloe Decker,” he muses, caressing her name with his voice, “You know, I swear I know that name from somewhere.” And then he hands her papers back to her and the silk drains out of his voice. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

The authority in his tone, the voice he uses with sullen perps and assholes who talk shit about her at the precinct, sends shivers down her spine and heat pooling between her legs. She could get lost in those eyes, that smile; she’s leaning towards him through the open window. Twirling a loose tendril of hair idly around her forefinger, she feigns surprise, batting her eyelashes like she hasn’t done since leaving her 20s firmly in the rearview mirror. “But why? Have I been…” a pregnant pause, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips, “...bad?”

Is she bad at this? She feels like she’s bad at this. She’s  _ never _ been a dirty talker. But when she sweeps her gaze over him in his probably-borrowed-possibly-tailored uniform, her attention snags on the prominent bulge in his pants and she relaxes a little. 

He opens the door for her and she slides out of the car, fetching up chest to chest with him, head tipped back to watch his jaw work as he eyes the long, tanned expanse of her legs. His breathing catches as she steadies herself - (“Ooh, hello.”) - with a hand on his chest. He leans on the open door with one arm, looking down at her from his head-and-shoulders height advantage. “You  _ are _ aware of the speed limit on freeways in California, I presume?” he asks, low and throaty. 

She almost breaks character and laughs. This man drives like an adrenaline junkie with a death wish. She doubts he’s ever paid attention to a speed limit in his  _ life _ . She manages to suppress the giggle bubbling up from her chest and offers him a breathy, “Sixty-five?” 

He’s practically looming over her, in her space, scant inches away from touching her, and his voice is danger behind a curtain of velvet. “You, my lovely little criminal, were doing seventy.”

“I was?” she asks, widening her eyes in feigned surprise, going for the sort of ditzy-but-hot girl-next-door energy she gave off in  _ Hot Tub High School _ . “I didn’t mean to.” She scuffs at the tarmac with one battered sneaker, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. He’s so close she can smell the fresh, citrusy scent of his expensive cologne. “Does that mean I’m in trouble, Officer?” 

“ _ Lots _ of trouble, darling,” and he’s smirking, regarding her down his long nose. “I should arrest you right here.” His eyes shift, to her lips this time. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“I’m sure you don’t want a permanent record, do you, Ms. Decker?” 

“Miss,” she corrects quickly. “I’m single.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” he purrs, very deliberately hooking his fingers into the belt loops of her shorts to gently pull her closer, against him. “Are you now? Lucky me. In that case, perhaps we could  come to some...mutually beneficial arrangement.”

She lets herself melt into him a little, hands coming up to toy with his shirt collar. His aviators are in the way of his buttons. She moves them to her own head, giving him a cheeky smile. “That could work. You let me go -” the top done-up button comes loose, and she leans in to press her lips to his jawline, trailing a slow line of open-mouthed kisses down his throat towards his collarbone. “- and I’ll make it worth your while.”

His smile is wolfish. “By all means,  _ Miss _ Decker -” and he gives her a have-at-it sort of gesture. “Convince me.”

She makes short work of a few more buttons as she leans up to claim his mouth. He makes a muffled sound in his throat and kisses back, his hands roaming freely over her torso, caressing her breasts through the thin fabric of her shirt, dipping into the back pocket of her shorts to squeeze a handful of her ass. She nips at his lip and he makes a low, wanting sound and deepens the kiss, licking into her mouth, tangling one hand in her hair. 

She breaks apart from him with a gasp as he undoes the button of her shorts one-handed, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties to apply gentle pressure between her thighs where she’s already wet and aching, slow circles with the pad of his finger. Her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt and her hips stutter against him, her breath leaving her in a stuttering exhale. 

She feels her cheeks flush scarlet when he murmurs an approving, “Well, well, well, we  _ are _ enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?”

Her mind, though, draws a blank, and all that comes out when she opens her mouth is a soft, “ _ Please _ .”

“Please what?” Lucifer asks innocently, withdrawing his hand to slip two slick fingers between his lips, tasting her, never taking his eyes off hers. 

“Touch me?” 

She’d intended to make him work for it more than this, maybe resist a little bit, let him get a little rough. But she’d vastly underestimated how fuckable he looks in that uniform, how much she’d want him, how well he could  _ sell _ this thing. She’s  _ burning _ . 

“Hmm.” His hand goes back down the front of her shorts, but he’s teasing, deliberate feather-light touches that make her ache with need. “I suppose I  _ should _ make sure you’re not hiding any illegal contraband.”

He has her pressed back against the side of the car before she really even registers that he’s moved; she feels him nudge her legs apart with his foot, and then his hand is back between her thighs, one long finger and then two slipping easily into her heat, and she chokes down a moan and buries her face in his shoulder as he puts that devilish skill to good use reducing her to a squirming mess of heat and desire and  _ need _ . 

Her peak takes her by surprise, legs shaking, and he’s practically holding her up as she drags his mouth down to hers by his hair, stifling her moan in his mouth. He’s grinning against her lips, playful and satisfied, as she clutches at his shirtfront and breathes him in, chest heaving. 

“Fuck.” The single word is full of everything she wants to say to him -  _ would _ say to him, if they weren’t playing \- and her voice trembles with it. 

“Indeed.” He’s just  _ smug _ . 

When she can move her legs again, she nudges him to take her place, pressing him eagerly back against the side of the Charger, pressing kisses to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. She pauses to suck a deep red mark into the curve of his neck and shoulder; again to coax his nipples into firm peaks with her tongue; a third time to nip at the flat expanse of his stomach. He watches her with rapt attention, eyes blown wide with lust, relaxing back against her car, his breathing heavy and smattered with soft little groans. Finally, she sinks to her knees with as much grace as she can manage. 

For a moment, she just breathes against him through the fabric of his pants, looking up at him, at how  _ wrecked _ he looks already, and then she drags her eyes away from his blown pupils and kiss-swollen lips and drags his zipper down, freeing him from the confines of the fabric. He lets out a soft sigh of relief, his hips twitching towards her in tiny little movements. 

He’s hot and hard under her hand, silk sheathing steel, and his head tips back with a low moan as she runs her tongue up the length of him from the base and presses a light kiss to the tip of his cock, salt and heat against her lips. She doesn’t have to look at him to feel his eyes on her; his gaze is scorching, enraptured, and she’s no stranger to being ogled but there’s a heady power in having him like this, so intent on her, like he can’t bring himself to look away.

The devil himself, powerless under her hand, her mouth, her tongue. 

The sound he makes when she takes him in her mouth is visceral and wanting, and she hollows her cheeks as she starts to move her head, using her hand to stroke what her mouth can’t reach. He pants and gasps above her as she works him, and when she finally sinks down as far as she can without choking she can feel him fighting to hold still for her. She keeps glancing up at him as she toys with him, the pretty flush chasing that line of freckles beneath the undone buttons of his shirt, the sharp line of his jaw, the little scar beneath his chin from long before humanity began to evolve. 

She hums around him and he chokes on a helpless little sound deep in his throat, one hand coming up to bury his fingers in her hair, not to guide her movements but just to ground himself. She braces her free hand against his thigh, and she can feel the muscle tensing and twitching in time with the bobbing movements of her head. 

Fuck, she loves him. This creature from before the beginning of time, before the creation of the universe itself, so responsive and eager for her touch. 

She knows him well enough by now to know when he’s close, more than familiar with the way his breathing picks up and the sounds he makes grow needy and breathless, and she knows he’s almost there even before his fingers clench in her hair and he chokes out a warning "Fuck - _Chloe_!"

She ignores him, swallowing around him as he hits the precipice and tumbles over, pulsing against her tongue. She laps gently at him as he rides out the aftershocks, her hands smoothing up and down his trembling thighs, until he makes a protesting little sound, shifting his weight. She tucks him gently back into his pants and does up his zipper, watching him come down from that post-orgasm high. 

Her legs ache as she rises, and there’re little bits of grit stuck to her knees, but she’s perfectly content as she trails lazy, open-mouthed kisses back up his flat stomach until eventually his head comes up, hair tousled, breathing hard, to pant, “Bloody hell, Detective.”

She cuts off his slip of the tongue by pressing her lips to his, lazy and indolent, eyes drifting closed as her arms wind around his neck to hold him close. His hands land at her waist, large and warm and stroking lightly at her sides with his thumbs. When she pulls away, he’s glowing, and her heart is bursting with love for him. She cups his jaw in one hand, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone, and he leans into it for a moment before she takes a step back. 

“Am I free to go, Officer?” she breathes, fingers quickly doing up the buttons of his shirt. 

It takes a second for his eyes to focus properly, and then he rumbles, “I suppose I can let you off with a warning this one time. If I catch you speeding again, I won’t be quite so merciful.”

She grins, and it feels wolfish. “I sure hope so."


End file.
